


What is a Schrodinger, anyway?

by kid_does_stuff



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: F/F, Ineffable Administration, angelfish - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-15
Updated: 2020-09-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:08:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26480932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kid_does_stuff/pseuds/kid_does_stuff
Summary: "What," Dagon started, "What in the mother fuck...did I just witness?" the demon accentuated and gestured with one hand toward Michael as her hand slapped down on her knee. She pursed her lips and glared harder at the fixture."Well," Michael said again, drawing in a deep breath, "I-" she paused and looked at the demon. "I honestly don't know either."---Michael is a good angel. Always has, and always will be, so how could it be wrong to help a demon collect a dead body?
Relationships: Dagon & Michael (Good Omens), Dagon/Michael (Good Omens)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 17





	What is a Schrodinger, anyway?

**Author's Note:**

> Just to clarify, most long strings of italics are supposed to be Michael's inner monologue. Dagon's is going to be in bold.

Crowley toweled off, snapped and was dressed.

"I'll be taking my leave then," he announced as he shrugged on his jacket. "If any of you need me, well, I'd suggest that you don't." He gave a short wave and saw himself out. After all, if the one thing in this world couldn't kill him, what's he got to be afraid of?

The crowd outside dissipated. Hastur moved to stalk out the door and Beelzebub climbed off the chair after Hastur. Neither of them spared a look at anything besides the floor. Hastur's shoulder slammed into Michael. One of them grumbled something under their breath, but Michael couldn't figure out which one it was or what was said. Michael just stared at the tub. There was an odd, fuzzy type of silence as the door slammed shut behind them both.

The last one hadn't moved. She stared intently at the bathtub. Keeping her eyes on the tub, she slowly sat down in the throne behind her and placed her elbows on her knees and then her face in her hands. She let out a defeated sigh and rubbed her face. The fuzzy silence was deafening.

"Oh, good lord," Michael whispered somewhat to the demon, but mostly to herself despite not knowing a single thing to say. _What in heaven's name do you say to that? I'm sorry for his life? I'm sorry I couldn't kill your coworker?_

"Yeah." the demon softly replied, still staring at the tub. It took Michael a moment to realize the demon hadn't blinked. Not that either of them needed to, but Michael did find that it was much easier on mortals to blink and the habit had just stuck.

Michael walked up to the tub and dipped the pitcher into the water, which flowed into the thing as if she had just pulled the plug on it. However, considering the condition of the tub and the subsequent pipes that had leaked into her blouse just on the way into Hell, Michael wouldn't be surprised if bile rose up into the tub rather than letting the water drain away. It's not like there was a shortage of holy water in heaven, so why bother to collect it at all? Michael couldn't think of a reason. 

"What," Dagon started, "What in the mother _fuck._..did I just witness?" the demon accentuated and gestured with one hand toward Michael as her hand slapped down on her knee. She pursed her lips and glared harder at the fixture.

"Well," Michael said again, drawing in a deep breath, "I-" she paused and looked at the demon. "I honestly don't know either." She grasped the pitcher and placed it on the floor. "I honestly don't know what to tell you..um," Michael gestured.

"Dagon," The demon replied, sounding considerably more reserved than before.

"I don't know what to say about this either, Dagon," Michael would be lying to herself if she said she wasn't slightly intimidated by this fish-like creature. But only slightly. It's only one measly demon after all. But then again, you can never be too careful, can you?

_Shouldn't you be afraid of me? I'm THE Archangel Michael. You should have left with your … friends? Coworkers?_

_._

_.._

_…_

_'Do demons even make friends with each other?_ ' Michael wondered.

Before Michael could even get in another word, Dagon was up out of the chair and circling the tub, looking as if she could find the answers to life itself within the rusted metal and cracked porcelain. She gripped the side of the tub, back facing the window and dropped to the floor, apparently not satisfied with her visual analysis up top, also seeming to have forgotten that she was in a room with an angel whose reputation was less than friendly towards those of a demonic nature.

"Something must've gone wrong," Dagon declared, "And you-," she popped up from behind the tub, "You are absolutely _certain_ that there was nothing wrong with that holy water?" Dagon cocked an eyebrow. Her tone wasn’t harsh, or accusatory in the least. It was only … curious. Gentle, even.

During Dagon's search of the tub, Michael instinctively grabbed the pitcher and moved it away from the flustered demon. It wouldn't be righteous to kill someone off schedule, after all.

"Positive," Michael waved her hand over the pitcher, vanishing it to her desk in heaven. "However, I can say with the utmost certainty that there _is_ something wrong with Crowley."

Dagon snorted. "Yeah, no kidding." She paused. "There's always been something weird with Crowley if I'm being honest." She mumbled, glaring into the tub.

"How do you mean?"

"Well for one, he had one job to do in this room and was to just _… die."_ Dagon said simply while kicking the tub pathetically, "The guy couldn't even do _that!"_ She kicked it again, much harder this time and Michael flinched. She didn’t sound angry. Just… distressed.

Now, having known Gabriel since the beginning of time actually had its advantages for Michael. For instance, the moment Dagon began to lilt her voice, Michael figured that Dagon was just going into something she referred to as 'Rant Mode'. This was just something Michael had learned to spot in Gabriel. After thousands of years of trying to get him to think rationally while ranting and raving over minute details, Michael figured that it was much easier to give small suggestions and let Gabriel rant himself into silence before trying to contribute to the conversation. 

Of course, this was not Gabriel. It was some stranger she'd met about 3 minutes ago. And it's a demon. 

It's a demon she met 3 minutes ago … and it's going into Rant Mode. 

"Second of all," she pointed at Michael with one hand and raised the other, "I am absolutely convinced that he cheated to get more commendations!" Dagon's expression softened, and her hand dropped to her side, "but that's kind of moot now."

"Rather difficult to cheat for commendations, don't you think?" 

_What in God's name am I doing? Just gonna have a little chat with your enemy?! Why don't I just pour her a cup of tea while I'm at it?_

"Yeah, but if you saw the timestamps on his miracles, you'd even see that _something_ is up." Dagon fretted back over to the step in front of the centermost throne and threw herself to the stone. "The timestamps don't make sense, the location stamps dont make sense, the fuckin'- oh who am I kidding? You wouldn't care about that." Dagon grunted past her hand.

Now, Michael really only had experience with one demon, the likes of whom are now long gone. This one, however, seemed just a tad … something. Whatever that something was, Michael had never spotted it within Ligur. Where Ligur seemed confident or confrontational, Dagon seemed almost meek. Perhaps subservient. Observant, too. She was definitely smarter than both Hastur and Ligur combined (not like that was a tough thing to beat, mind you.)

_Oh, right. Ligur… Rest in peace._ Michael felt her insides do something funny. What exactly they were doing made no sense corporation wise, but there was no time to analyze that now.

"Isn't there someplace you should be buggering off to by now?" Dagon pointedly asked Michael.

Michael flicked her wrist to check the time. 

9:53 AM, Greenwich Mean Time.

"Actually, no. I was expecting this to take much longer, what with all the final paperwork and such. I'm not due back to Heaven for another few hours."

"Then what are you still doing here?" There it was again, the curious-not-angry tone. Dagon’s eyes were wide with interest and all on Michael.

Michael took a breath to steady herself. "Considering what just happened here, I'm not that curious as to what is happening to Aziraphale right now. Or rather, what _isn't_ happening to him right now."

"Could be dead for all you know." Dagon suggested with a hopeful upturn to her voice.

Michael considered this for a moment. "Yes, but what I _do_ know makes me think he's still alive." 

Dagon snorted again, looking away. "A kindov Shrödenger's angel."

"Pardon?"

"Like Shrödenger's cat, but an angel. Simultaneously dead and alive until proven otherwise."

"I uh… I'm afraid I don't follow."

Dagon eyed Michael up and down "Forget it." 

_You are something else._ Michael thought. _Just a moment ago I could have ended you… and you don't seem to care._

"How could he cheat the commendation system?" Michael blurted before she could reconsider asking at all, while taking a seat on the stone next to Dagon, with respectable distance of course.

In Heaven, if you ever had something uncouth to say, it was typical to prompt another angel before asking questions that were too forward. However, Dagon was no angel, and Michael figured if this conversation went south, Dagon would just take the initiative to stop talking. Or make a char-broil out of Michael. Whichever comes first.

_If you're going to incinerate me, here's your chance, Fish. Just try me, I dare you._

Dagon glanced over.

“I mean, it _is_ rather difficult to cheat a system that is designed to only give credit where credit is due. What uhm... what exactly makes you think he could cheat it?” Michael hazarded the question.

Breaking eye contact, Dagon snapped her fingers and a stack of yellowed parchment appeared in her hands.

“Okay, so, um ... i-it’s like this.” Dagon stuttered, flipping through the papers quite quickly, until she landed on a page that appeared to be some kind of empty ledger. She pointed to a few lines on the page. Michael leaned in.

"Look here. This file is all of his major miracles for the decade of 1480 to 1490."

"It's blank." Michael stated, matter-of-factly.

"Exactly. The only _major_ miracles he did back then were teleports and currency requests." Dagon explained.

"And... what's that got to do with any commendations?"

Dagon took a deep breath. "Listen, credit where it's due, Crowley is _very_ clever and cunning, but he's not _that good_ . Nobody is,” she shook her head. “All I'm saying is that here is no way he managed to establish a series of events that would lead to the height of the Spanish Inquisition with just money and teleports." Stuttering, Dagon poked at the open palm of her hand, each jab landing in a slightly different spot than it had before Dagon then smacked the page with the back of her gloved hand. "He'd need something more slick than that. An unlocked door, a-a-a cognitive interference, or _something."_

Michael held out her hand and Dagon gave her the stack of papers. She started to flip through them as Dagon buried her face in her hands once more. Michael flipped to a new decade, which read 1940-1950. Her eyes poured over the page, narrowing with every lack of miracle noted. 

_You weren’t kidding,_ Michael thought. _Every two major miracles it seems Crowley has a commendation._ Michael rubbed her forehead with the palm of her hand while paging through the papers, desperately searching for any miracles that seemed _at all_ appropriate.

“Wow,” She stated plainly, letting out another deep breath. "I need a cigarette.” To be fair, she really did need one, but that was _only_ because these files were so baffling. And this _had been_ quite a day. And what else are you supposed to do when the only plan worth working towards since the dawn of time unraveled at its seams?

“I won’t stop you.” Dagon mumbled into her hands.

Michael flipped to another year. 0-8 AD. Only cash and teleports, no real temptations. Three commendations. With her other hand, Michael flipped open a box of cigarettes, miraculously procured out of thin air. Setting the papers between herself and Dagon, she pulled one out.

“Need a lite?” Dagon asked, snapping her fingers as a tiny flame danced on the ends of her index finger and thumb. The fire illuminated Dagon’s nearly black eyes (which were actually a lovely deep blue color, Michael noted) and gave each one of her scales a vibrant iridescence that flickered with the flame. It also lit up some highlights in her hair that would otherwise have gone unnoticed under the suffocating lighting of Hell. In an odd way, she was actually quite pre-

_I'm not going to finish that thought. Nope. Absolutely not._

Michael starred and lifted the cigarette to Dagon's flame. "Thanks," Michael stuffed the cigarette into her mouth and took a long suffering drag. And only afterwards did Michael realize she was alone in a room with a demon who has Hellfire on her fingertips.

_Thank Heaven for cigarettes._

"Not a problem," Dagon snuffed the flame, much to Michael’s relief. "To be honest, I didn't take you for a smoker."

"I wouldn't need to if Gabriel were a little less insufferable."

Dagon snort-giggled and went quiet.

Michael took a drag. And totally wasn't hiding the teeniest, _tiniest_ smile right on the corners of her mouth. Nope. No smiling here.

There are few universal truths of this world and others. Birds chirp, dogs bark, and awkward conversations between strangers are hardly salvageable. Even for the most eloquent, professional, and intimidating beings in all of creation, awkward conversations are and shall always be plainly, awkward. But _damn it all_ if Michael wasn't going to try and get this fish to talk. 

"Any idea where you're going to go from here?" Michael continued as casually as one conversing with heredity enemies could, which is to say not at all.

“What do you mean?” Dagon shifted uncomfortably.

"I mean, it's not like there's another Armageddon to prepare for,” Michael let out an impressive puff of smoke with a flourish of her cigarette, “What are the rest of us supposed to do now?"

"We'll just carry on like we always have, I suppose." Dagon choked on her words, and put a hand over her mouth. “I’ve got some loose ends need tyin’ up.” Unbeknownst to Michael, Dagon’s face began to turn an atypical shade of green. That is to say, more atypical than the usual amount of green most demons were. Michael took another long, soothing drag, and Dagon turned a little more green.

“Yes, but I mean, for the long run. What are _we_ supposed to do?” Michael said, sweeping her hand around, vaguely gesturing about the rest.

Dagon winced as the cigarette came closer to her, and seemed to curl in on herself, one hand covering her mouth and the other going under her collar and around her throat as Michael continued. The room was beginning to get hazy with smoke.

“I mean it’s not like your lot have a spare anti-christ on hand… And even if you did, there’s no guarantee that would even work! I mean, just look at how _this_ mess turned out! Aziraphale had one job for the whole ordeal and-” Michael turned to look at Dagon, who had all but curled into a tight ball. “Are you alright?” Michael asked as Dagon erupted into a massive coughing fit, befitting those that had been sucking down inhalebles for years.

Michael knew disease. She knew the pain, suffering, and afflictions humans wore, and Dagon’s cough reminded her quite acutely of those. She felt her heart clench in pity. Demon or not, unexpected violent coughing fits are unpleasant for everyone involved.

Dagon shook her head tightly, pointing at Michael’s hand and back at her own neck. “Smoke and gills. Sometimes they can't get along,” Dagon made a pinched expression and made quick work of removing her collar, revealing three parallel slits on each side of her neck.

“Oo-oh ‘kay,” Dagon breathed, standing up and stalking away from Michael, “That’s - that is marginally better.” Her voice was rough and hoarse, almost painfully so. “Sorry, I’m usually able to handle cigarettes." Another cough racked through Dagon's body. One of Dagon’s hands went around her throat and the other around her midsection.“You wouldn’t happen to have any non-holy water on you by chance?” Dagon ground out with the hints of an uncomfortable smile playing on her lips.

_Oh no. Nonononono. Wrong direction. I'd rather not make her miserable if I can help it._

Michael stared in disbelief and quickly snuffed her cigarette on the concrete, “If you have a hard time with smoke, then why did you light my cigarette?” she lightly admonished, clutching a tall bottle of water that _definitely_ wasn’t in her hand a moment prior.

“I didn’t say you could, and I didn't know that I would!” Dagon leaned forward over the tub, “All I said was that I wasn’t going to stop you.”

"Oh for God's sake, Dagon." Michael said, cracking the seal on the bottle and handing it to Dagon.

“Don’t bring her into this,” Dagon grumbled and hacked as she leaned further forward and dumped the water over the back of her neck with considerably little regard for how much of it just ended up soaking her jacket.

The slits - her _gills_ \- flexed grotesquely, taking in the rivulets of water that poured over them. The water that flowed past her gills Dagon caught in her other hand, cupping the water as she brought it to her mouth. All the while, Dagon made noises from somewhere that definitely wasn't her mouth that would really only befitt a horror film, full of clicks and whistles that sounded just around the corner from happy and relieved. Something akin to a demented porpoise, really. For all intents and purposes, it should have been a repulsive sight, but Michael found it just a tad bit intriguing. Dagon emptied the bottle and placed it politely on the floor.

"Much appreciated," grunted Dagon, hand still around her throat, "Sorry, usually I can handle smoke." Taking several deep breaths, Dagon started again, "I guess my filter wasn't as clean as I'd anticipated." Dagon pointed to the rather stupid looking discarded collar beside the stack of files.

Michael scrunched her nose in disgust.

"That? That thing helps you breathe?" Michael winced, side-eyeing at the pile of rags.

"Well? You try breathing this air for eternity! It's more silica, asbestos, and sulfur than any breathable gases anyway. Besides," Dagon tilted her head back, spreading the slits wide for Michael to have a closer look, "Gills, water, _fish."_ Dagon pointed, gesturing to her entire self. "I'm a cephalopod."

"Alright, alright," Michael threw her hands up in a shallow surrender position, "I understand, it's just -" Michael pinched the collar, handing it to Dagon, "Well… it's a bit dirty isn't it?" 

Dagon snatched her collar back, frowning. 

"Didn't get a chance to toss it in the wash yet." Dagon mumbled, fiddling with some of the felt and latching the collar back into place.

Michael's phone chimed.

  * **New Message**



**Gabriel: Come back up, ur gonna want to see this**

Michael sighed, slapping the back of her phone against the open palm of her left hand. "Suppose I should be seeing myself out now," she said, sliding the mobile into her back pocket and marching up to the doorway. "Can't say it was nice talking to you, but have a good rest of your day." Michael stopped suddenly, facing the hallway with a rather unfortunate realization. 

"You don't know your way out, do you?" Dagon asked from behind her. _Again with the curious-not-accusatory tone._

"Uhh… No," Michael subtly bit the inside of her lower lip, "No, I'm afraid I don't."

"Alright, here." Dagon slipped past Michael, seeming to try and keep as much distance between herself and Michael as possible, much unlike Hastur’s earlier blunder. "Follow me," Dagon gestured, gliding easily through a set of double doors.

The hallways were dark, damp, and rancid smelling. They were also curiously empty. The fluorescent bulbs buzzed uncomfortably.

Dagon's boots thumped against the concrete while Michael's tapped in a way that anybody with ears would find displeasing.

“Thank you," Michael hazarded.

"What for?" Dagon stared ahead.

"For leading me out," Michael noted, "It's very kind of you. Especially after _you_ almost choked on _my_ cigarette."

"Yeah well, I'm gonna have to make a trip up to Earth anyway. Might as well kill two birds with one stone." Dagon shrugged. "And don't call me kind. The absence of cruelty does not make me kind."

"Noted." 

_What a weirdo._

A few more uncomfortable steps forward, and Michael really felt like prying. "What reason have you got on Earth?"

"Someone has to go get whatever is left of Ligur,” a beat of silence passed, “And I guarantee that there's no volunteers for that.”

"Oh. Right."

“Dunno how I’m going to do it though.” Dagon said lowly.

Another beat of silence passed. 

“What’s wrong? You look confused.” Dagon stated

“Hope you don’t mind me asking, but,” Michael glanced around, peeking into a few passing hallways, “Where is everybody?”

Dagon checked her wrist watch, which Michael noted was a cheap, scuffed digital lump of plastic that must’ve once been perfectly slim, clean, and dainty. “Probably gone out to lunch or something.”

“All of them?”

“Weirder things have happened.” Dagon shrugged, “ And do with alarming regularity.”

“Like this entire conversation?” Michael mumbled.

Dagon whipped to look at Michael only to find a significantly more flustered angel.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I’m just saying that it's more than a bit peculiar how you had me in a room all alone with hellfire in your hand and not once have you made a move to even try and harm me!” Michael exacerbated.

“You were the one with holy water first!” Dagon sniped.

“It isn’t becoming of an angel to kill someone off schedule!” Michael mocked.

“Oh gee thanks, lemme know when you get a chance to pencil my death into your pearly little schedule book!" Dagon sneered, barring an impressive amount of razor sharp teeth.

At this, Michael was silent as they walked. 

"Sorry." Dagon spat flatly.

"Likewise." Michael spat back, knowing that both of them were quite definitely insincere in their apologies.

And just as suddenly as the conversation picked up, it dropped with the appearance of the lift. Michael let out a silent sigh of relief. 

The doors opened with a dilapidated chime and both stepped in. Michael felt her confidence slip away just as quickly as the doors slid shut. The lift lurched upward.

_Oh._

_Oh no._

_She_ **_must_ ** _hate me now. I know it. I blew it, and now there's no neutral ground once the lift stops. Bye-bye Michael. I can't summon holy water now, she'd see! Oh, but of course they can just make fire with their hands!! And of bloody course I forgot to bring a weapon! My spear would be useless here though, no room to work. Maybe a dagger would have been best… or at least a butterknife._

Dagon drew in and let out a deep breath, slowly shutting her eyes as she did so. "For the record, I honestly am sorry for snapping at you just now." Dagon mumbled as the doors closed, sounding quiet yet … 

_Sincere_?

"It's just been one hell of a day." Dagon muttered, louder and more clear this time.

Michael felt her heart thump as her internal panic settled on something else. _Say something!!_

"Um, yes well uhh… thank you… for ah," Michael looked up and found a pair of painfully deep blue eyes staring right back, "... not setting me on fire?"

Dagon snorted, and smirked. “Sure,” her fangs flashed as her smirk grew into a small, uneasy smile, “Anytime."

_A demon just apologized to me._ Michael thought dumbly, eyes trained on the doors in front of her.

Michael felt Dagon’s eyes raking up and down her person. Michael knew consciously that she could take down Dagon with half the power in her pinky finger, but now she didn’t feel too damn sure. Then again, if you spend ten thousand and some years preparing for the war to end all wars, tearing out your own hair while drafting battle plans, getting screeched at by the universe’s loudest older brother, and participating in the world's longest subterfuge only to have it all go up in an anticlimactic puff of smoke, you wouldn’t be to sure of much either.

Michael’s mind raced right up and around as many attack strategies as she could fathom, trying desperately to predict Dagon’s next move. 

_What was Aziraphale saying about knowing the future again? Oh man alive, what would I give for that ability right now._

_Respect your opponent. But pounce before you are pounced upon. But also respect your opponent. She will probably go low, so I'll just have to go lower and undermine her attack. But mostly expect the unexpected because you can't trust demons. How low is low again?_

Demons are creatures of sin, spite and hatred. They inspired the worst of humanity into actions that have left the bitterest of tastes onto history. Demons are known to have toppled whole civilizations, as well as rebuild them from the ground up to topple it yet again, all just for kicks. They are the creatures of humanity's biggest deceptions, and are therefore not to be trusted under any circumstances. At least, that's what Michael was told to say. To repeat to herself, really.

This one has manners, it seems.

"So," Dagon started awkwardly, "I uh… I gotta ask since it _is_ just the two of us in here." She scuffed her boot into the floor and the bell chimed as it climbed another floor. "Were you the one Ligur was always talking to? The back channel?"

Whatever color Michael knew to be in her face definitely had drained away at that.

_Oh. I'm in the shit now._

Michael took a deep breath to steady herself. Contrary to heavenly belief, Archangel Bloody Michael was not, in fact, unshakeable. This being evidenced by Michael's natural fear of delivering speeches, this development having occurred after a series of unfortunate reports delivered on the topic of war-torn France and a young woman claiming to have held a conversation with the Almighty some time ago.*

Gabriel had certainly given her a whole new understanding for the term _trumpet-toned.**_

"Yes, actually," Michael's hands grasped each other behind her back, certainly more sweaty than Michael typically knew her own hands to be. "How did you know?"

"Ligur always racked up the highest phone bill." Dagon said airily, leaning up against the wall of the lift. "And he wasn't exactly sneaky about it either, so…" 

"Oh." 

"It's not a big deal. I was just curious is all. I mean, s'kind odd that your lot sent you when we sent one of the clones, ya know?" Dagon rambled.

"Oh. Uhm, alright then." Michael chomped down on the inside of her lip to, at the very least, give herself a distraction from the filth of the lift and the boundary conscious demon on the other wall.

While listening to the lift tick slowly upward, Michael thought. She thought of Ligur, the demon with whom she made a shaky yet workable alliance with over the course of several thousand years, and how he is now a holy puddle of nothing. _What a way to go._ She pulled out her phone and, cradling it in such a way so that Dagon could not see _should she look over_ , scrolled through the call logs. Both outgoing and incoming calls glowed back at her.

Michael thought of how she would never receive another call from Ligur again. Michael looked at Dagon from the corner of her eye.

It was at this point that our dear Archangel Michael decided on a few things that must never be uttered under any circumstances. To anyone … ever. 

    1. Michael (in an odd sort of way) liked Dagon. Perhaps just about enough as she had liked Ligur.*** Although, not nearly enough to justify having a happy lil' chat, but Dagon is… agreeable. Agreeable enough that perhaps the use of self defense discorporation _may_ be unnecessary. Tolerable is what she is, really.
    2. Michael felt the tiniest bit of pity towards Dagon. She realized that, once this whole elevator situation was over, Michael would get to go back to her quiet, pristine, _holy_ home. But Dagon? _Dagon went from secretary to prosecuting attorney to terrorist negotiator to hazardous waste management all in one day._ And to top it all off, she is now stuck in an elevator with The Archangel Bloody Michael with no plan on how to honor her fallen comrade. Michael felt her heart clench again.
    3. _I'm not here with Her. She's in here with **Me.**_



_Well, in for a penny..._

"How are you going to pick him up?" Michael blurted.

"Pardon?"

"How are you going to collect Ligur? He's just a puddle of holy sludge now," Michael subtly drew in a deep enough breath for the _out of line thing that I should probably prompt Dagon about before I say it but I kind of can't ignore it the more I think about it and-_

"You can't pick him up. You'd get yourself killed if you tried," Michael softly explained.

Just like that, the lift lurched, and the doors parted to the lobby of H & H Inc.

"I'll figure it out on my way there," Dagon sighed, stepping out of the lift. "Well Mickey, it was nice talking to ya. Be seein' you."

"Dagon wait," Michael twitched and placed a hand on Dagon's shoulder, pulling back immediately as she turned back around.****

Dagon spun on her heel, jostling Michael's hand off and shot Michael a warning glare. **Don't touch me,** it snarled.

"There's no way on Earth that you can safely touch Ligur," 

"Yeah, I know, you just said-"

"Let me help you," Michael cut in.

Dagon stood just outside the lift and eyed Michael carefully.

"Yes, I know. It's a stupid idea, but there's no reason for you to send yourself to your death when there is a perfectly … serviceable angel right in front of you." Michael gave Dagon an uneasy smile, splaying her hands out as if to let Dagon see her palms.

"Pardon me, Mickey, but I don't trust you." Dagon gave a snarky little smirk.

"Just trust me enough to let me help you," Michael offered, "You can trust me, I promise." Michael stepped forward, "After all, what else is an angel to do than to _love thy enemy er..._ so to speak."

Dagon stepped back warily.

"How about going home. You could instead go home and forget that you ever even spoke to me and live _happily ever after."_ Dagon sneared harshly, yet again baring her teeth which Michael noted were considerably more human in appearance on Earth than they were in Hell. Her scales were gone as well. _Pity._

"How about a deal instead? That's a good buzz word for your lot, isn't it?" Michael thought very hard about how to word the next sentence as Dagon’s eyes locked onto Michael. 

_Jackpot._

"How about an exchange. For some … oh I don't know… _information…_ I'll give you my servitude for one task." Michael said slowly.

Dagon's eyes went wide with the realization that Michael actually found quite a neat little loophole in the whole heredity enemies thing.

"I trust that you understand what I'm getting at then?"

"Yeah, I got it. I don't really get why you'd even want to, but the offer is loud and clear."

"So it's settled then? A small service for some intel?" Michael outstretched her hand which she made absolutely certain was not shaking. Nope. Not quivering either.

"And by intel, that includes, but is not strictly limited to, any of the horrors that exist within the files of Hell. Just for the record," Dagon looked to Michael, then her hand, and then back to Michael. She took Michaels hand and, with a very professional grip and firm motion, shook on it. Their hands dropped, and both an angel and a demon were left standing in the lobby to Earth.

"So what would you like to know before we head out to Crowley's place?" Dagon said on a sigh, arms raising slightly and then dropping back by her sides. “There’s just about anything that exists within the archives of hell, so is there anything in particular that you’d like to know?”

Michael thought hard for a moment. Dagon didn’t _really_ have anything that Michael was dying to know, considering all that Michael really wanted to do, all things considered, was make sure that one dead demon didn’t turn into two. Then again, a seemingly affluent member of the rebels of old was open and willing to divulge just about anything worth knowing. Just about any information would be award winning in Heaven! Battle strategies, _weapon preference,_ **_hellfire immunity-_ **

_The war is over. There’s no need for that now._

Michael looked to Dagon and, for the first time in what felt like centuries, Michael uncoiled a knot somewhere in her gut and breathed the world’s most potent sigh of relief. 

“Actually yes, there is something that I’d like to know.”

“Which is?”

The lift doors slid shut as Michael stepped out.

"What's a Shrödenger?"

\----------

*In actuality, Joan of Arc had claimed that she had held a conversation with Michael herself. However, Michael was at least 98% certain that she hadn't even _been_ on Earth during the 15th century. Now, whether or not Michael had fed Gabriel a teeny, _tiny_ fib to spare herself from unnecessary hearing loss is purely up for speculation. However, we the readers should know by now that Michael is a touch more… morally grey than most angels.

**And tinnitus. 

***Michael also decided to buy a thesaurus because she found that 'like' was far too strong a word.

**** Michael noted that her hand felt rather tingly. Almost like she had stuck her hand into a bonfire for just a brief moment only for that bonfire to throw her hand as far away from the flames as possible.

  
  
  
  



End file.
